scream in

the yawning horror comes in the babydream dawn where breasts extrude human filth and the monsters grow fat on the codified obscenities of farmed abortions.
she screams but she is alone in a room decorated with meat, painted with human fat. gravewax tallows, hands of glory lit and burning. all these atrocity bodies are the given flesh of the unspoken yesterday as it crawls its way out of shallow graves to claim the innocence of today. thin veneer, blistering paintwork, it all goes down under slash and burn farming methods.
joy division choirs; new order orchestras. come and get your tattoos and drum out the underpinning rhythm of deathcamp century. there are prayers of denial here in the holocaust antechamber. devils in the green room with fake grails and corrupted peace and the stink of all of that fakery masquerading as concern.
crossroads, cross swords, and burning crosses, as the grand dragon pulls itself up through mountains of faeces sculpted into the visage of every single face that every masked an emptiness claiming to be a big idea.
there are photographers lined up and they are taking pictures for the rubbernecker children of spectacle attention spans. it suppurates, it bursts, and we all go down screaming.

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